And then the birds came in their dozens, they came in their hundreds. And God went from vat to vat and gave them the colours they wanted. He gave them the beaks they wanted and he gave them the legs they wanted. Then a large bird landed and strutted up before him.
He said, “Master, you have recalled me?”
“Of course, my little friend,” said God, “I have recalled you.”
“Master,” he said, “you have sent me to the lakes, to the rivers. I love to wade, but my bottom is always getting wet! My legs are too short.”
“Then go to the basket,” said God. “And pick the legs that suit you.” And the bird went to the basket and picked the longest legs he could find. What kind of bird would that be? A crane, of course! And God gave him a little grey colour. Off he flew. He was happy.
So, bird after bird they came in their hundreds. And soon the basket of beaks was empty. Every bird had got what they required. The basket of legs was empty. And all the vats of colours were gone. And God looked out on his beautiful world. And he saw all these beautiful valleys. He saw the rivers, he saw the lakes, he saw the trees, the forests, the mountains and he saw the animals. He saw every bird with all their beautiful colours. And he was happy!
“Now,” he thought, “it is time to rest.” But he was just about to rest when a little grey bird landed on his knee, a tiny grey bird.
And the little bird spoke and said, “Master, I am so sorry – I came a long way when I heard you call – and I am sorry I am late!”
And God said, “My little friend, you see, you really are late.”
“Could I have a little colour, Master, like the rest of the birds?”
God said, “My little friend, I am really sorry. You see, there is nothing left. All my vats are empty. My colours are all gone. My baskets are empty. There are no beaks for you, there are no legs for you.”
And the little bird said, “Master, I am quite pleased with what I have, my legs and my beak. It’s just a little colour I need.”
And God said, “My little friend, there is no colour left. My vats are empty.”
Then the little bird said, “Master, check your brushes! Maybe there’s a teeny-weeny piece of colour left on your brushes.”
And God went from brush to brush which he had used on the birds. But all the brushes were dry! Until he came to the last teeny little brush; he picked it up and looked at it. There on the point of the last little brush was a teeny-weeny piece of golden paint. And he looked at the little brush and he looked at the tiny piece of golden paint. He looked at the little bird on his knee.
He said, “My little friend, I am really sorry. You see, you will have to remain a little grey bird till the end of time, because I have no more colours to give you. But just you open your beak, my little friend, and I will give you something more special than all the colours on all the birds of my world!”
And the little grey bird sat on God’s knee and opened its little beak. God very carefully took the tiny piece of golden paint, and he painted the throat of the little grey bird. He said, “Now, my little friend, you go on your way and be happy. You will never have any colour. But from this moment on you will have something more special than all the colours of the birds in my world; from this moment on you will sing with a golden throat! So, go on your way, my little nightingale, and be happy!”
That nightingale flew off; it will remain a little grey bird till the end of time. But it has something more special than all the colours of all the birds in the world, because it has the most beautiful singing voice of all. The voice of the nightingale, given to it by God’s last little piece of golden paint from his last teeny little brush, after he had painted all the birds in the world.
The Boy and the Snake
There are many beautiful stories on the West Coast of Scotland, but the most beautiful, the most wonderful story of all, I think, is kind of sad. This story was told to me by an old crofting man who had it told to him by his grandfather when he was a child. I hope you will like it. It tells you that parents think they know what is best for their children, but sometimes the children know better, so listen to this little story.
Away back on the West Coast where I come from there’s an old derelict farm building, and it’s out on the hillside. It is ruins now and has been for many years, for over a hundred and fifty years. It all started with a shepherd and his family, his wife and his little boy.
This shepherd had a little sheep farm on the hillside and he had many sheep. And he had a little boy called Iain. Because Iain was so young, just about five years old, and because it was so far to the village, Iain couldn’t go to school.
His daddy said, “When you get a little older I will buy you a pony. Then you can ride the five miles to school. But in the meantime you must stay with your mother, help your mother around the house with her work while I tend my sheep.”
Iain was a very happy little boy. There was no one more beautiful and happier than him. And he played around the farm all day. He had plenty pets – dogs, cats, geese, hens – but he paid no attention to them.
But one summer’s morning his father was out hunting the sheep as usual, when he fell over a rock and he hurt his leg. He barely managed to walk home. Now he could not tend his sheep.
So Iain would always come downstairs in the morning to the kitchen table, and his mother would give him a plate of porridge and milk for breakfast. Then he would take the plate and walk out the door, walk away up the hillside among the heather... there Iain came to a large rock on the hillside.
He took the spoon and he halved the porridge down the centre, put one half to that side o’ the plate and the other half to the other side of the plate. Then he tap-tap-tapped on the rock with his spoon. And from out behind the rock came a large adder, a poisonous snake – there are many on the hills in the West Coast. The snake came to his plate. It started to eat the porridge off the one side of the plate, and Iain ate from the other side. If the snake dared cross to his side of the plate he tapped it with his spoon; it pulled its head back.
“Stay on your own side!” Iain would say. Every morning he would go out and do this.
But this one morning the father said to his wife, “Why does Iain go outside with his porridge? Why doesn’t he take it at the table?”
She said, “Husband, he’s not doing any harm. He’s a bright little boy and he just goes out... he likes to eat it by himself.”
So his daddy having a sore leg said, “Well, why doesn’t he stay here with us? I like my son to have his breakfast with me. Where does he go anyhow with his porridge?”
And his wife said, “He just goes out and eats it out on the hillside; he loves doing it outside.”
“Well, why doesn’t he stay and have it at the table? I want my boy to stay and eat porridge with me at the table!”
But the next morning as usual Iain comes downstairs, gets his plate of porridge and walks outside with it. And his daddy’s leg is beginning to get a little better by this time. He takes a walking stick from behind the door and he hobbles after Iain, keeping a little distance behind him among the heather.
He watches Iain going to the rock. He watches Iain taking the spoon and halving the porridge in two; and he watches him tap-tap-tapping on the rock with his spoon. He watches the snake coming out… he is terrified. He has seen so many snakes on the hill in his time hunting sheep, but he has never seen one as large as this! This one is over four feet long. Iain’s father is terrified. It comes up to the plate, it starts to eat the porridge. And when it finishes its side it tries to cross the plate, and Iain hits it with the spoon – it pulls its head back.
He quickly hobbled back home to his wife and he said, “Do you know what your son is doing? He’s out there, in the hillside, and he’s eating with a snake, a poisonous adder! And to make matters worse he hits it with his spoon. If that snake bites him he shall die!”
“Well,” she said, “husband, he’s been doing that all summer long, and if that snake was going to bite
him it would have done so a long time ago. I think ye should leave him alone.”
“I’m not having my son eating with a snake; I’m not having my son eating with a snake! That terrible adder,” he said, “that’s a poisonous adder. Tomorrow morning when he comes downstairs for his breakfast you send him up to tidy up his bedroom, and I’ll take the porridge to the snake.”
So sure enough, next morning Iain comes downstairs and he says, “Could I have my breakfast, Mummy?”
She says, “After you tidy up your room. It’s in a terrible mess your bedroom. Collect your toys and tidy up for your mummy!”
“Yes, Mummy!” and he ran up the stairs, he went to his room.
While he was gone his daddy took the empty plate and spoon, and he hobbled out of the kitchen. He took his gun from behind the door and he walked… to the stone. He tap-tap-tapped on the rock with his spoon. Out came the snake, and he shot the snake. He carried it back to the house. He buried it in the garden. Iain knew nothing of this. He was busy working in his room. His father came in and sat down at the table.
Sure enough, soon Iain comes downstairs once more.
He says, “Mummy, can I have my breakfast, please?”
And his mother gives him a plate of porridge and milk and his spoon. He hurriedly, happy little boy, walks away through his little path through the heather.
His father turns round to his wife and says, “He’s in for a big surprise when he goes back. I shot the snake.”
“Well,” she said, “I don’t think you should have done that.”
Iain goes to the rock once more with his spoon, and he halves the porridge in two as usual – one side to that side, one side to the other side o’ the plate – then tap-tap-tap on the rock. And he waits.
No answer.
He taps again with his spoon.
No answer.
Three times he taps. No snake.
He says, “Well, my pet, you seem to not be hungry this morning.”
And he lifts the plate, porridge and all, he walks back with it. He puts it on the table.
His mummy says, “What’s the trouble, Iain? Are ye not having yer breakfast this morning?”
He says, “I don’t feel very hungry.” He walks up to his bedroom.
The next morning he went with his porridge to the stone. The same thing happened. He went with it three times. Nothing happened. On the fourth day Iain did not come downstairs.
By this time his daddy’s leg is better. He says, “What’s the trouble? Where is Iain this morning?” He goes up to get Iain.
Iain was just lying in bed staring at the ceiling. He would not talk to his father in any way, nor he would not talk to his mother in any way. He just lay there. He had completely lost the will to live, in any way. He lay there for nearly a week without food or drink.
His father said, “This cannot go on.” So he took his pony, he rode down to the little village and brought back the doctor.
The doctor came in, asked the trouble. They told him, but they never mentioned the snake. The doctor went up to Iain’s bedroom. He examined him in every way. He could find nothing wrong with him. But Iain wouldn’t even talk to the doctor; he just lay staring into space.
Then the doctor came down and he said to Iain’s mother and father, “I can’t seem to see anything wrong with yer son. He just seems to have lost the will to live. Has anything happened to upset him in any way?”
And it was Iain’s mother who said, “Probably it was the snake.”
The doctor said, “Snake? What snake? Tell me about it.”
Iain’s father told the doctor about the snake he had shot.
The doctor was very upset. He said, “Ye know, children are very queer sometimes, and they love to choose their own pets in their own time.” And he said, “I’m sorry, ye should not have touched the snake. I don’t think it would ever have touched him in any way. How long had he been feeding this snake?”
She said, “He’d been doing this since the beginning of summer, and the summer before that when he was only four. I never knew anything about the snake. But he was a quite happy child, and I just let him take his breakfast outside every morning,” said his mother.
“Well,” the doctor said, “I think ye’ve made a grave mistake. I’ll come back and see him again, but I don’t think there’s very much I can do for yer son. He’ll have to come out of it himself.”
But Iain lay in bed and he just pined away. He finally died.
And his mother and father were so upset they sold the farm and moved off to another part of the country. The funny thing was, no one seemed to want the farm after the story spread from the doctor. The farm stood there till it became a ruins. But Iain’s daddy never forgave himself for shooting the queerest pet that any child could have – a poisonous snake.
And that, children, is a true story that happened a long time ago on the West Coast of Scotland. If you were there with me today I could lead you to the same place, to the ruins of the farmhouse; I’ve passed it many times on my travels through the West Coast.
Spider and the Fly
It was a beautiful sunny morning a long time ago. Old Grandfather Spider with his eight big hairy legs crawled up the wall of someone’s house till he came to the window ledge. Oh, the sun was shining, the birds were whistling. It was a beautiful day! And then he took a long silver thread and very carefully he stretched it along the ledge, from end to end of the window. Then he curled up and went off to sleep in the sunshine. It was the most beautiful thread you ever saw in all your life.
Of course, high up on the window ledge was old Daddy Long-legs. He was buzzing around the window up there with his long legs, buzzing around. And he watched old Mr Spider put that long silver thread along the ledge. But Daddy Long-legs knew better – he would not touch that thread! He would not come near it. Because he knew there was danger around.
Of course, out in the garden Mr Bumblebee was buzzing around from flower to flower gathering pollen to make his honey. And you know bees have many eyes! Out of the corner of one he watched old Mr Spider put that silver thread along the window ledge. But Mr Bumblebee, he would not touch that thread! He knew better.
Then who should come flying along but nosy little Mrs Fly herself! And you know how nosy flies are; if you have one in your home, one in your house or one in your school, they like to fly around, alight on your light bulbs and go on your food and in your dishes. They like to investigate. Flies are very nosy little creatures!
She came flying along and landed on the window ledge. With her six little legs she crawled up very carefully across the ledge. Then she saw the thread.
She said, “Oh, oh! What a beautiful thread! I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in all my life. It’s glittering in the sunlight!” And then very carefully she reached out leg number one... she touched the thread. But to her surprise, leg number one stuck to the thread. Oh, she tugged and she cried, “Help me, someone, please help me!” But no one heard her cry. And then very carefully she took leg number two. She reached over to try and release leg number one, and leg number two got stuck to the thread! Oh, she tugged and she cried, “Help me, someone, please help me! My legs are stuck to this thread.” But she could not get free.
Then she took leg number three to try and release leg number two. And leg number three got stuck to the thread! The same with number four, number five and number six. Soon her six little legs were stuck to the silver thread. Meanwhile old Grandfather Spider was still asleep. He knew nothing of this. She cried and she tugged and she pulled, but she could not get free.
And then down from the window comes old Daddy Long-legs with his big long legs.
“Oh, Daddy Long-legs,” she said, “I’m so pleased to see you. You must help me!” said Mrs Fly. “My legs are stuck to this thread.”
And Daddy Long-legs said, “Well, Mrs Fly, don’t you know better to leave well alone? Now you’re in trouble, and I have no time to help you.” And away flew Daddy Long-legs.
O
h, she tugged and she cried and she pulled. But she could not get free. Then in from the garden came Mr Bumblebee. And he buzzed around the window ledge.
“Oh, Mr Bumblebee, I am so pleased to see you. You see, you must help me!”
“What’s your trouble?” said old Mr Bumblebee.
“It’s my legs are stuck to this thread and I cannot get free.”
“Then, Mrs Fly,” said old Mr Bumblebee, “it’s your own fault. You see, you are too nosy. You won’t leave well alone! Now you’re in big trouble. And I am a busy bee; I have no time to help you.” And away flew Mr Bumblebee.
Poor little Mrs Fly she’s still stuck to this thread. Oh, she tugged and she cried and she pulled. But she could not get free. “Help me, someone, please help me!” she cried. But no one heard her cries.
And then, old Grandfather Spider wakened up. He took two of his eight hairy legs and he rubbed them to his eyes.
And he said, “Someone has been at my thread while I was asleep and tangled it all up.” He wanted to retract his thread. So, he began very carefully to pull – left and right – but with the thread he naturally pulled in little Mrs Fly.
“Oh, Mr Spider, I’m so sorry. You see, I’m so sorry. You must set me free!” cried Mrs Fly.
“Set you free, my dear, after what you’ve done to my thread? I cannot set you free!”
“But you must set me free! You must; I must go home to my children. It was all a mistake. I promise you I will never touch your thread again,” cried Mrs Fly.
“It is too late, my dear, the damage has been done. You see,” said Mr Spider, “no one told you to touch my thread. And I was asleep. You are too nosy; you won’t leave well alone. But now you’re in big trouble!” And again he began very carefully to pull in this thread – piece after piece, he wound it. As he pulled in this thread, closer and closer came little Mrs Fly.
“But you must set me free! I cannot stay here; I must go home to my children, to my family!”
The Flight of the Golden Bird Page 4
